Page 14 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

“We have to tell someone,” I mutter, half to myself. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he echoes. “But not today, right?”

I stop pacing. “Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Because you’re barely holding it together and I think if you have to explain this to Olivia in real time, your soul might vacate your body.”

I exhale, dragging both hands through my hair. “Okay. Fine. Maybe you’re right. But what does this mean for us? What do we do with this?”

He shrugs again, but this time it’s slower, more thoughtful. “Maybe we lean into it. Embrace the mystery. Use it to our advantage.”

“Our marriage is not a marketing angle, Grayson.”

He grins. “Not yet.”

I slap his shoulder with the back of my hand, but he catches my wrist, tugging me slightly toward him.

“Tell me the truth,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Are you mad?”

I look up at him, and it takes everything in me to say the truth out loud. “No. Not mad. Just… confused, and a little panicked that I don’t remember something that’s legally binding. That terrifies me.”

He nods, serious now. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

I nod back, letting the moment stretch. Then I pull my hand free and open the mini fridge.

“Want to stress-eat some questionable cabin cheese?”

He laughs. “Only if we pair it with toast and mild existential dread.”

I hand him the cheese. “Perfect. The married couple cuisine.”

We fall back into our strange little routine, bumping elbows at the sink, side-stepping each other in the hallway, stealing glances as we pass. We’re figuring it out, or at least surviving it, one surprise at a time.

10

GRAYSON

We go for a walk because Margot says we need air, but I can tell she’s really just trying to outrun the chaos curling around her thoughts. She walks fast, boots kicking up gravel, jaw tight, and I match her pace without saying much at first. The laptop back in the cabin is still open to that blurred photo of us outside the chapel, mid-laugh, arm-in-arm. I’m not saying it’s the best wedding photo in the world, but I’m also not saying it isn’t kind of perfect.

The trail behind the cabin winds through trees and brush, sunlight slipping through branches in thin gold lines, peaceful, but not quiet. She’s stewing. I can feel it in every clipped step and tight breath.

“So…” I say, nudging a pine cone with my boot. “Do we register at Crate & Barrel, or are we more of a Vegas-themed Target aisle couple?”

Margot snorts, and there it is, the edge softening. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll design a registry that’s ninety percent USB-powered kitchen tools and glitter shot glasses.”

I grin. “Honestly? Kind of hot.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yet legally yours,” I grin.

“I swear, if you say ‘ball and chain’ I will throw you into the nearest patch of poison ivy.”

I laugh and bump her shoulder. “You’re the chain, Evans. I’m the guy who keeps running straight into it.”

She pulls out her phone as we slow near a fallen log, scrolling through the drive Olivia sent. “Okay, this one’s inside the chapel. I think that’s you… dancing with the officiant?”

I lean in. “Oh my God. Is that a conga line?”

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